


Entrac’te: Mother of Worlds

by B_Radley



Series: Rise and Fight Again [20]
Category: Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 21:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: A Queen reflects on the role of mothers, with two of her daughters of choice.





	1. Nola: The List

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a prompt I did on tumblr for SL Walker several months; using one of my original characters. It grew a bit as I reflected on Mother’s Day yesterday. Hope that you all enjoy the story, focusing now on Queen Breha, who can always use some fandom love.
> 
> Missing scenes from my about-to-finish story _Thou Soul of Love and Bravery_. It is not a requirement to read this story; there are no spoilers or timeline issues. It might help to know a bit about some of my OCs, that help tell this story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Queen gives a lesson in facing mistakes; of forgiveness. She reminds an adopted child of her world of her oath and her responsibilities.

Nola Vorserrie looks down at the three objects on the polished burlwood of the table. A gold brushed rank plaque, the seal of Alderaan etched into it. 

Five dark-blue, almost black pips spaced evenly on it.

A symbol unique on Alderaan. One that she and Senator Organa practically had to physically wrest from the previous bearer. Even though he had eschewed the rank for a civilian title that gave him more power and prestige. A dormant title that Nels Somar had managed to combine with the one associated with this symbol. A unique symbol. Almost as unique as the man who would bear it, at least for awhile. Until he could help them identify the best candidate. The best candidate to wrest the two titles from each other, again.

Her eyes move to one other object. One that she and Bail had both joked about using when the negotiations to unseat Somar had taken a sideways turn. An item from the man’s heritage. A small Corellian blaster, issued from the Royal Armory. She grins. _He probably already has a few of his own, but appearances must be maintained._

It is the third item that softens her gaze. A small, unobtrusive object. An object, triple, quadruple, and quintuple encrypted. Codes that can direct and protect the Fulcrum of Bail Organa’s and others’ hopes and dreams. Codes that she has guarded with her life for two years and more. 

Her eyes tear as she thinks of what this means. That Ahsoka’s chances of survival have increased tenfold with the skill of another Temple-trained protector. Even one whose connection with his mystical partner is spotty at best.

That his chances—the chances of one that she loves as much as her Fulcrum, have increased as well with the inclusion of his hunt-sister. Two warriors who had sworn oaths to one another in their youth. To fight with each other, not just for.

She thinks of what she owes him. Her freedom. Her very existence? A scared, fifteen-year old girl, a pawn for a Separatist general looking to add to his retirement plan. Nola grins as she thinks of the snark and love from him, her Zeltron foster-sister, a Jedi master, pirates, various clonetroopers and an ex-Sith as they assisted her escape. She rolls her eyes, cursing herself. 

_No. They rescued you, No-no. Even if you won’t admit it to them, you have to admit it to yourself._

She reaches into the inner pocket of her business suit. She pulls out a fourth item. One that she carries next to her heart, but had not looked at for years, since she had become the handler of a prickly, snark-filled warrior, whose own losses could be seen in her powerful blue eyes, when the snark faltered.

A warrior that she had failed, by following protocol, when she had known of another who had shared her former life. If the whispered words against the skin of her shoulder as Ahsoka slept, on the rare occasions that they had shared each other’s own light were to be believed, the two Jedi had been something more to each other, before each was lost to the other.

Nola unfolds the worn piece of flimsi. Her dark eyes track on the childish letters from a decade ago. Letters that made up the words of a list. A list that was the product of her own mouth spending credits that her ass couldn’t back up, a common occurrence back then. 

_What do you mean, back then_? This question is asked in a high, clear voice in her mind, with just a hint of dryness and that hunt-born snark.

Back then, this trait usually manifested itself with teachers at her school before she left for Handmaiden training. She remembers her father’s patient, wise eyes, eyes that she shared in color as he made her create this list.

“It’s not all about you, No-no. You’re concerned with your life and what happens to you. While this is important to protect yourself, it is not the only thing you should be concerned with. You have said how much you want to be like your mother’s cousin, Padme’. Think about how she does things. What her concerns are. The reasons that she does what she does.

“Your teachers, who you probably think are stupid, are looking at a much bigger picture than you.”

She remembers agonizing over the words of this list as a ten-year old.

 _It’s not all about you._ Written ten times. Others had joined the list as she was sent back to it, when she failed to live up to it. Sent by her father, her mother, even her cousin. 

By another pair of Queens of Naboo as well. One living, one killed by the new regime.

She grins at one particular line. 

_Listen before you speak._ Her grin grows bittersweet as she thinks of her nickname from that Corellian on her mind. 

_Last Word._

Her eyes fall on the last one written. Written after she had taken her oath, in the dark of Naboo’s moon, as a Handmaiden. A part of that oath. A credo.

_I exist to serve._

She looks up as she realizes that she is not alone. She hastily dips her head as Breha, Queen of Alderaan gazes at her. The Queen’s lips quirk up on both sides in a small smile.

Her dark eyes move over the objects on the table. Two of them she nods at. The third and fourth, her eyes grow troubled.

She ignores the code plaque. Her hand moves to Nola’s list. Her smile disappears. She looks up at her Hand. Her eyes are unreadable. 

“You left one off, dear,” she says.

Nola’s breathing increases, the feeling in the pit of her stomach not unlike that of her ten-year old self facing those teachers.

“Those that you serve. Cherish them. Hold them close to you. All that I can say is, to make the rest of the list easier, is that you cherish them. Cherish them as if every day might be their last. Or yours. Love them. Laugh with them.” She smiles mischievously. “Have ‘wrestling matches’ with them.” Her eyes twinkle at Nola’s blush at the description of Nola and Ahsoka’s once a year— _well, the words are fairly descriptive._.

She grows serious. “Look at that as your penance, my Hand, if you feel that you have to punish yourself for what you did.”

Nola starts to speak, stops. Breha’s eyes sharpen. Nola finds that she cannot meet the steel gaze.

“Bail was ready to accept your resignation after you were shot.” Breha looks away, but Nola glimpses the powerful love for her husband before she does. “He felt you’d given enough. We’ve talked about this before. In many ways, he may not be ruthless enough for what we are doing. It makes me love him all the more, because every decision he makes goes to his heart. Something that sets him apart from our enemies.”

She smiles. “He has me to help him be ruthless. As well as my Hand, even though she doesn’t realize it.” Her smile fades again, replaced by the hardness. “I told him no. I wasn’t going to let you run from this. I’ve never seen you run before. I am not going to let you now.”

“I ran—,” Nola starts.

“I’m not going to argue with you, Nola,” Breha says, her tone mirroring her words; brooking no discussion. “This is where you’re going to listen.”

“You’re the Hand of the Queen. You give me cover for my decisions. But you’re also there to tell me when I am wrong. You’ve carried out all of our wishes—some of them, I know you struggled with, be they the products of luck or skill. I’m not going to let you shirk your responsibilities, now.”

Nola looks defiantly at her. “I may have failed you already, Your Majesty,” she says. “I can see what’s said in the Council of Graces. How much criticism you get for selecting me as Hand. A young, untried off-worlder. Nepotism because I’m related to your dead friend.”

Breha does not let up. “Yes, and most of those whispers are led by Dorith Panteer. A man who wants your job. Actually, he wants mine in his family. Our Houses have been rivals for the throne for thousands of years.”

“Maybe it would’ve helped if I hadn’t rebuffed his advances and married him,” Nola says.

Breha rolls her eyes—almost with the power of Fulcrum. “Not that your charms aren’t irresistible, but he didn’t want you for you. He wanted you so he could get to me. To Bail.”

Her beautiful features twist with anger. “I won’t let him any further into our affairs. He’s made it clear by his words and certain actions, that he believes our destiny is to be closer to the Empire. Could you imagine if he was my Hand? What danger we would all be in? Fulcrum?”

She calms. It is as if a switch is pulled. She is no longer the mother protecting her pack, but the powerful Queen protecting her nation-planet. 

Some would say that they are one and the same. 

“The most important aspect of that bullet I am adding to your list. Let them cherish you. Let them pick you up when you fall. Let them forgive you.” She reaches over and pulls Nola into her embrace. “Forgive yourself. Hold yourself accountable, as you do more than anyone else, but forgive yourself.”

She breaks away. “His ship has passed the outer markers of the system. He will be here shortly. Make sure he knows why he is here. To make Bail’s job easier. To find someone worthy to replace him as General.” She smirks, an expression reminiscent of that warrior that they both worry about. “Don’t let the Corellian get the last word, Nola.”

~=~=~=~=~=

Bryne Covenant stands in front of her, the new symbol of his office on the chest of his gray suit. The blaster has disappeared to the back of his belt, much like she and her foster-sister carries theirs. She lifts his injured left hand and brings it close to her lips. She closes her eyes and focuses them on her list. Including the new words she has added after her audience with the Queen.

She closes his hand around the small code-chip. “She’s in your hands, now, Tal,” she whispers, using a name that she had first known him by.

He smiles the crooked smile that makes Fulcrum’s heart flip. _Hers ain’t the only one._

Her eyes widen as he moves the chip back to hers. 

“Nope. Got a full plate with cleaning shit up here.” His eyes grow warm as he looks at her steadily. “We’re in each other’s hands, No-no. That is what I’ve had to learn in all of this. But neither of us can protect the other without a conduit to each other. Someone who might be able to sort through our stubbornness and poodoo with no small amount of her own.”

Nola sees her father, her mother, her Queens in her mind’s eye, all holding a part of that list.

“What can I do to make it easier?” she asks.


	2. Meglann: The Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A daughter of choice and the Mother of her World help each other heal from losses.

Meglann Florlin stares at her reflection in the mirror, her normally sparkling eyes troubled. She can only hope that the messy curls that she has managed to tame into an upswept bun will stay tamed for the duration of the night, while still trying to make sure that Gort maintains a record of not poisoning the royal family of Alderaan on their family night.

She sits down on the bed. A cryptic summons to the Palace the night before the usual family night. A credit slip reimbursing her for the entire day and night’s use of the diner, as well as assurances that her new employees could handle the morning and early afternoon crowd of the busy seventh-day. Added assurances from the calm woman who had shown her to this well-appointed, but comfortable guest room in the family wing that the Queen had insisted on her using.

Meglann manages to smile as she wonders if she would’ve been able to rebuff the Queen’s ‘insistence’. She glances at the mirror; realizes she is still clad only in her underwear.

She reaches over to the box on the bed that the woman, Sabe’, had handed her before she had left the night before. Meglann hadn’t opened it; hadn’t dared, unless the the entire day dissolved into a fevered dream, a bit of Gort’s cooking that didn’t sit well with her the night before. _That could be closer to the truth_ , she thinks, shaking her head. Her mind’s eye flows back to the only other time she had come to the Palace—a school field trip, crowded with about a hundred other chattering pre-teenagers, cooped up in a large group.

Meglann’s heart clinches and she closes her eyes at the memory. Her twelve-year old self, still grieving the loss of her mother, two years before, grieving the loss of the man who had been her guardian-uncle’s life—a man who had done more to help heal her than anyone, just with the stories of his distant world—a world on the cusp of becoming a true Core member.

Her tears had flowed even more when she realized that she had become separated from the scrum. She had calmed quickly when she had further realized that she had the first respite from the drama of her schoolmates. She had sat down in the nearest chair in the marbled entry hall.

A knock at the door slides into her senses. Flori Laken’s voice requests entry. She absently gives permission as her mind moves to the past.

~=~=~=~=~=

Breha Organa, Queen of the Sovereign Mother-world of Alderaan, holder of the Candlewick Throne, spins on her chattering advisors, her dark eyes narrowed. She draws in a deep breath, then closes her eyes, calming the anger at the suggestions that she rest. When she opens them, the advisors have mysteriously disappeared. She sits down on a comfortable bench, knowing she should feel remorse at her show of temper, but at this moment, she only feels relief at being alone.

She rubs her hand on her abdomen absently. She looks down, seeing the glow of the pulmonodes under her skin—her constant companion since the age of sixteen, when, after the surgery, in a fit of stubbornness before her final Day of Demand, had refused the grafting of skin and muscle over the cybernetic heart and lung combination. An electromechanical combination, that while saving her life, had probably contributed to the slow recovery from all of her miscarriages, if not having actually caused them.

 _All of which had probably not improved my disposition with those around me_ , she thinks.

The pain in her soul increases as she thinks of Bail’s pain, of his worried looks—of his hovering. Pain coupled with the news of what was happening on Coruscant. A young Jedi Padawan, indeed, the same Padawan who had helped foil an assassination attempt on their dear friend Padme’ Amidala here on Alderaan, had been arrested. The young woman, _Tano—that’s her name_ —faced a tribunal in the Senate under military jurisdiction, after being expelled from the Jedi. A tribunal, Bail had told her, that could result in the young woman’s execution. She tries to remember how old the Padawan is. She knows that Bail is agonizing over what his role might have to be, as he will surely be called to serve. The representative of a world that hasn’t had the death penalty in centuries.

Breha’s eyes widen as she realizes she is not alone in the antechamber. A young girl, her bronze hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, sits in one of the chairs against the opposite wall—one of the ones reserved for the Royal Family. The girl, her brown eyes wide, sits paralyzed in the chair, her fists twisting at the bottom of her school tunic, as she looks at Breha with a slight expression of terror.

Breha sends a warm smile to her features. “Come here, little one,” she says. “I won’t bite and I haven’t sentenced anyone to the dungeons in, oh, about five minutes.”

In spite of herself, the girl giggles. She rises from the chair and walks over to the Queen. Bre realizes that the girl, while only about twelve or so, is rapidly outgrowing her school uniform. Her arms and legs, though thin, bear on a tiny hint of pre-adolescent awkwardness. She bows, awaiting a signal to rise.

Bre gives it, stifling the laughter. She freezes as she sees the tiny rectangle on the girl’s chest, above her heart. A red and white shape, with a single gold star on the white background. The insignia of a lost loved one in the current galaxy-wide conflagration.

“Come here; sit next to me, sweetie,” she says, patting the bench. The girl, after a moment of indecision, obeys.

“Where did you lose them?” she asks gently, touching the symbol.

“Some place called, uh, Ry-loth,” the girl says, turning her face away for an instant. When her eyes return to the Queen, they are calm. Calm as if she has already shed all of the tears.

“Who were they to you?”

“My mom, your Majesty,” the girl says, suddenly remembering her manners.

“Who takes care of you, dear?” Bre asks.

“My uncle. He just lost his love.” The matter-of-fact way in which she says it cuts through Breha.

She pulls the child closer to her, allowing her to rest her face on the warm glow above Breha’s gown. She is about to say something else when two Palace guards rush in. A middle-aged woman, clearly a teacher, from Breha’s practiced eye, follows, her hands wringing.

“There you are, dear,” the woman says, with forced kindness. “I think that we need to have a talk about boundaries, young lady. About following instructions.”

She feels the girl’s eyes cast to the marble floor. Several emotions run through the girl’s brown eyes. Regret, sadness. Breha smirks. _How much of it is regret and sadness at causing trouble, or regret and sadness at being found and having to go back to the tumult?_

Breha looks up at the teacher, who suddenly recognizes her. She bows deeply, her eyes narrowing as they track downwards, at the girl. “Oh! I’m so sorry, your Majesty, that she has bothered you. Rest assured, she will be pu—,” she says. She stops as Breha rises. The girl rises with her.

“A child is never a bother to me,” she says in her ‘Queen-but-still-Minister-of-Education’ voice. “Thought my teachers would’ve realized that by now.” She gestures for the woman to rise from her bow. “This young lady has brightened an already dim day. She’s the daughter of one of our heroes.”

The teacher nods after a moment. Breha’s eyes fall on the lead guards, flicks towards the exit. The woman recognizes the look, grins. “Come on, ma’am. We’ve located Miss Florlin. Let’s leave her and the Queen to their conversation.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have her back before you leave.” She smiles warmly, taking the teacher’s hand in hers. “Perhaps you and your children will enjoy a tour of some of the places that regular tours don’t get to go. Maybe the hangar. The _Tantive IV_ is onworld, now,” she she suggest, knowing the average twelve-year old. She feels only a tiny bit of remorse on the strain she will place on her Chief Pilot, Captain Antilles, a man without children of his own, and from what she can tell, very comfortable with that fact. She feels a glimmer of an excited squeeze from the girl’s hand at the words. She nods as the woman exits, gently pushed along by the guards.

“Come on,” she says to the girl. “We’ll take the long way ‘round. I’ll make sure that you get the Queen’s tour of another ship. One that not a lot of people know of. More of a working ship than a showpiece. What’s your name, Flower?”

The girl giggles at the play on her name. “Meglann,” she says.

“Was your mother a pilot, Meglann?” she asks.

“She used to be. She was a ship’s officer, when—,” she starts. She looks away, struggling with tears.

Breha nods. “Do you want to be a pilot? There are programs. ”

Meglann looks back at her; smiles. “I don’t know. Right now, I think that I need to take care of my uncle. He’s a bantha’s ass—.” She closes her mouth, placing both hands over the offending organ.

Breha shakes her head, smiling. “But he’s yours, right?”

Breha sees something in the girl’s eyes—something that may not always be present these days. An engaging sparkle, as she giggles. “Yes, your Majesty,” Meglann says.

“Tell me, Meglann. Are you and your uncle doing alright, with credits?”

Meglann nods. “Yes. We get the stipend from my mother’s benefits. He’s an accountant. We’re comfortable, if we’re careful.” She sees the dark eyes harden as Breha starts to speak. “We don’t want charity,” she says. “We’re from Tolwyn. We work for what we get.”

The Queen smiles at the words; words that a twelve-year old has probably often heard repeated, as she thinks of that independent little enclave in the mountains. Not many residents ever leave, their self-reliance and their love for the place well known. _Much less go out among the stars_ , she thinks, of Meglann’s mother. Breha nods. She places her hand over her abdomen; the pain in her soul rising for just a moment as she looks down at Meglann’s determined face. They enter the alternate hangar for the _Sundered Heart_. A brand-new medical rescue and relief ship. She smiles at Captain Colton. A dedicated family man, chosen for his empathy for these missions.

She realizes, as she watches Meglann ask questions of Colton, that her earlier deflection of the teacher’s anger had not been hyperbole. Meglann, by her care for her uncle in the face of her own loss, had brightened her day, even as it unleashed the pain of her own losses; of the pain on Bail’s face. She starts to think of possibilities—possibilities she had discounted, even when Bail had brought them up. Possibilities that might lessen the stress on her body—the main concern of her husband; his guilt.

She smiles softly.

~=~=~=~=~=

Meglann squeaks as the Queen of Alderaan follows the Handmaiden into the room. She looks at Flori, her face growing hot. Flori shrugs, then looks at her body appreciatively. The Zeltron’s eyes hold a bit of promise. Meglann shakes her head, dismissing any affects that the resonance might have. _No, no, no. Don’t think about that. You’re standing here in front of your Queen, naked except for a pair of underwear that you hope are actually clean._

Meglann stares at the Queen, as the memory of that long-ago first meeting; the warmth that had pervaded her frozen heart from the small woman. She had known of the Queen’s loss in the weeks before. She, even at twelve years old, had known the effort her kindness and warmth must have taken.

She realizes that the Queen’s eyes seem to be in the past, as well. Only for a moment, as Breha comes back to the present. “Hello, dear,” she says. “I see you haven’t opened your gift. You’ll need it for family night tonight.” She grins. “Perhaps my Handmaiden can help you put it on, if she can keep her hands to herself long enough.”

Meglann feels the blush flow to her skin. Surprisingly, Flori flushes an extra shade of crimson, as well.

She tries to calm the blush that seems to continue as Breha and Flori look over her in the gift. A calf-length dress in dark blue, trimmed with silver stands out, against her skin. She looks down self-consciously at the bare skin, as the fabric of the dress rests off of her shoulders.

“Your Majesty, I can’t possibly—,” she starts.

Breha places her fingers over the taller woman’s lips. “Yes, you can, dear.”

Meglann grins cheekily against the Queen’s finger. “I was going to say that I can’t run the diner for family night in this. Gort will probably require admonishment.”

“That’s why we brought you some help. Tonight is your night, Meglann. For the privilege of allowing us to disrupt your business once a month on a busy weekend night. For the respite you provide.” Her eyes grow soft. “For the respite that you give Fulcrum and our others. A sense of normalcy that they don’t often get.”

Meglann’s eyes tear as she thinks of the warrior, only a few years older than her. Of the laughter that both experience on increasingly rare occasions. She smiles as she thinks of the other—the Corellian that also provides light for Ahsoka.Her eyes grow even more sad; thinking of the risk that both of them bear. They bear while she sits at home, worrying over insurance premiums, when her cook manages to poison someone.

Breha smiles, seeing her expression. “Nope, dear. Not going to let you mope about what you do for them. Not tonight.”

She hugs Meglann to her. After a moment, Meglann feels Flori move into the embrace as well.

~=~=~=~=~=

Breha watches as Meglann laughs with Leia, as her daughter sits in the young woman’s lap. Nola catches her eye, smiling softly. They both watch as Meglann’s hand moves absently to the small gold symbol around her neck. A symbol that the same little girl now giggling in in the diner-owner’s lap had, in a moment of solemnity, placed over her head.

A small flower, its gold leaves and petals gleaming in the light, a hint of yellow and warm pink showing in jewels. A rare two-toned example of the Candlewick. The symbol of the throne of Alderaan.

The sign of a particular friend of and to the throne.

As she watches the three young women close to her heart, of the warmth for them all, she thinks of the traditional definition of children.

A definition that applies to these, as well as some out in the stars, bringing light to the darkness, while trying to maintain their own light.

Light to her own world, as well as to her family. She smiles as she thinks of the traditional name for that world, among its people. _The Mother_.

A name that embodies the Queens of Alderaan; one of the main reasons, but not the only, that monarchs are now only female as much as possible. She thinks of her title in the old tongue.

_Mother of Worlds._


End file.
